


Saying Goodbye To Shadows

by Alexander_Writes, Drakkonis



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Make It Worse, Angst, Diplomacy, Gay Anton Shudder, Hopeless uses they/them pronouns, Humor, Just About All The Dead Men Are Queer, M/M, Nonbinary Character, OCs with Ridiculous names, Potential Mental Illness TW, Prior to Canon, Truce Signing Era, alcohol tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25570063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakkonis/pseuds/Drakkonis
Summary: Set immediately post-war, the Dead Men are dealing with the aftermath of the last few centuries in different ways. Hopeless is more stressed than usual. Larrikin just wants Dexter not to murder a war criminal. Deuce is trying to pass the Secrecy Laws. And then you have Erskine Ravel, aiming to flip the world on its head because he can't use magic to keep the rain off in public.
Relationships: Dexter Vex/Larrikin (Skulduggery Pleasant), Saracen Rue/Anton Shudder
Kudos: 11





	Saying Goodbye To Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Erskine didn’t believe in the principles behind Corrival’s current orders - requests - and that was the problem."
> 
> Erskine and Corrival get political. Hopeless needs some support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a multi-chaptered AU set right at the end of the war, in Ireland, sometime during the 1920s. Larrikin and Hopeless are based on my own personal headcanons - so Hopeless is nonbinary, and Larrikin is a healer. Not everything will be canon-compliant; Hopeless and Larrikin are alive, Erskine didn’t poison Saracen, etc. Drakkonis and I are writing these chapters together.
> 
> Fyodor (Alexander_Writes)
> 
> In addition, we would like to apologise for the amount of emotional pain that the characters are likely going to end up going through, and the amount of emotional pain you may experience from our interesting character names. But not sincerely.
> 
> Lucy (Drakkonis)
> 
> Lastly, our update schedule is nonexistent and updates will not be regular necessarily. You can, however, be assured that our chapter titles will be consistently weird.
> 
> Fyodor (Again)

Hairbrush Hummus McKey the Third was a confusing man, or he tried to be. The fact that he was bald was either some sort of cosmic joke, or perhaps some intended irony that didn’t quite work. Erskine did not care either way. He wanted to get away from the man as soon as possible. Unfortunately Corrival was halfway through pitching his ideas for the new secrecy laws and so Erskine had to remain standing here, pretending to be interested. Here he was, _helping_ instead of partying with the others, and being forced to stare at this man’s stupid bald head.

Erskine glared at a potted plant for a change of scenery. His baldness mocked him in the corner of his vision - but at least it was something to focus on, rather than the ideas that, arguably, he should be agreeing with. _Should_ didn’t really hold much currency, however, simply because he didn’t - couldn’t - however much he tried. 

Hairbrush said something to Corrival. Corrival said something to Erskine. Erskine blinked.

“Yes,” he said decisively. 

“... You _do_ think that these laws shouldn’t be in place?” Corrival asked. It took a terrifyingly long moment for Erskine’s brain to catch up.

“No- No.” He cleared his throat and tried to pretend he was paying attention, ignoring the sympathy in Corrival’s smile. “I was meaning that I agreed with you. This is something that we need.”

“You weren’t paying attention,” Deuce said flatly. 

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Erskine nodded. “I want to cry and possibly drink the last two centuries away.”

Hairbrush stared, possibly amazed at hearing one of Dublin’s war heroes be so blunt. Corrival shrugged.

“I’m not keeping you, if that’s what you need to do.”

“Look, it's not like I'm thrilled to be here.” He glanced at Hairbrush, adding quickly, “No offence meant, of course. Just that I'd rather be spending my time celebrating than taking part in political discussions, as I'm sure you can understand. Anyway, I’m paying attention. Carry on.”

“I just don’t know why you’re approaching _me_ ,” Hairbrush said. “Isn’t your lot busy finalising this Truce thing?”

“I’d think it was obvious,” Erskine said, stepping forward, wry humour falling away until he was entirely serious. “You're one of the better-known campaigners for near enough eradicating mortals from our everyday lives. Surely this is what you want, even if we're going about it in a different way?”

“I want to separate completely,” Hairbrush snapped. “To have a self-sufficient magical community away from mortals, not us being reduced to pansies who’ll happily live amongst them, hiding in slums like ...” 

“Oh yes,” Erskine cut in. “Where, exactly, will you have this community? On the moon? In a little spot in the Arctic? The mortals are everywhere. You need to accept that. This is the only practical solution.”

From Corrival’s quick, appreciative glance, Erskine suspected he sounded convincing. He was good at that, even when he wasn’t convinced himself.

“How often do you use magic in public anyway?” he continued, firing ahead before he could start to question his own words. “Not doing magic around mortals doesn’t mean letting go of it altogether. It means keeping it to private spaces, to specific people. Is that such a horrific idea? Would you rather the mortals rise up against us and start to revolt? Like they did in Russia?”

The comparison did not hold up well. Russia’s people had revolted due to many very specific factors, the Great War and an absolutist monarchy amongst them. But the violence of that revolution was still fresh enough in people’s minds for its image to be used effectively; and effective it was, because Hairbrush blanched.

“That was different.”

“Different it may be,” said Corrival, and he squeezed Erskine’s wrist before he could go off on a tangent, “but the result would be the same. The mortals aren’t prepared for such a reveal. They may never be. As sorcerers, we have a duty to keep them safe.”

“We don’t owe _them_ anything,” Hairbrush protested.

“They deserve the same respect as anybody else, any sorcerer,” Erskine said sharply. “No person is superior to any other, not on account of their birth or station or powers or sex. We are all equal and ...”

“Erskine,” Corrival interjected. The next words were quiet enough that Hairbrush would not be able to hear them. “You’re not helping.” 

This was true. Hairbrush’s jaw was clenched, his eyes cold and defensive. Erskine looked at his friend’s face - not General, now, not with the Truce being signed in several days. Deuce looked understanding, but Erskine’s face flushed anyway, and he fell quiet.

Corrival continued to speak, but Erskine’s thoughts were drifting again, even if he wasn’t completely losing track of the conversation. It was almost surprising, even to him, how passionate he seemed about the cause. He didn’t feel that passion. Not as much as he should have, anyway. He had come along to Corrival’s Dublin Office for the meeting with Hairbrush, in order to help Deuce in his mission. Why he was doing this when he felt so conflicted, he wasn’t entirely sure. Perhaps he was simply too used to obeying Corrival’s orders. But he didn’t believe in the principles behind Corrival’s current orders - requests - and that was the problem.

Well, Erskine believed the part about equality. Mortals and mages weren’t as different as many mages asserted. The issue was that he and Corrival believed in the same founding principles, but disagreed on how to put them into practice. Yes, they shouldn’t be separating themselves from mortals. Corrival believed in hiding from and protecting the mortals - Erskine didn’t believe that they could do both at the same time effectively. He hadn’t, of course, voiced these thoughts to Corrival. He hadn’t even told Hopeless. 

He wanted to believe Corrival badly, wanted to be able to nod along with that same amount of certainty, that confidence that radiated from his friend. And yet, Corrival’s imagined future was far from perfect, and Erskine doubted whether it would even work.

Erskine knew that mortals weren’t lesser. He also knew that they were just as prejudiced as mages, just as eager to cause harm. Their Great War had been as gruesome as anything during their war against Mevolent - there had simply been no magic. So Erskine expected the mortals to have more wars in the future, to persecute people in the margins, to attack people like Anton and Hopeless and anybody else who seemed _different_. Corrival wanted to protect the mortals - but what about protecting _themselves_ from the havoc that mortals had proven so capable of? Erskine had seen how mortals treated Hopeless, for who they were, and it made him quietly angry. Angry enough to change the entire world?

He wasn’t sure. The idea of excessive alcohol was even more tempting. Why had he passed that up?

Deuce and Hairbrush were still talking. Hairbrush was beginning to nod, like they all seemed to do when faced with Deuce’s conviction. Erskine tried to ensure that his face was neutral. If he started on any more vaguely socialist rants, or looked like he was about to, Deuce would probably hit him with a brick. Or more likely, a teacup, like the one he was holding delicately between his grizzled palms. 

Perhaps Erskine was being overly naïve. Something like that had never happened before, to his knowledge, where mortals and mages lived openly together. Sure, there was a reason for that - and the reason was that it’d be messy. Of course it would be messy, to throw hundreds of millions of people into a world that may have existed under their feet, but they knew nothing about; and yet, it was inevitable.

Cowardice kept mages from revealing themselves. Erskine was sure of that. He just wasn’t sure how to tell them that without having bricks, teacups or possible tables thrown at him.

Abruptly, Erskine realised that the conversation was tailing off, and wondered briefly just when his attention had been lost completely. Not that it mattered, but he had sort-of promised to pay attention. Still, Corrival was turning to him, and he had some sort of idea of what he’d say.

The door clicked shut behind Hairbrush, and Corrival put his mug down. “So?”

“So?” he repeated, leaning against the wall and attempting an air of nonchalance. Not that there was much point acting around Corrival, who could see right through him. Erskine had no idea how his doubts weren’t visible to the man. 

“We’ve got one person on our side.” 

Erskine nodded. “We have.”

Corrival regarded him more closely for a second. “Are you being deliberately obtuse, or are you just tired?” 

“Huh?” Erskine frowned. “But he was nodding. He didn’t agree with you?”

“No,” Corrival sighed, sitting down carefully. Erskine forgot sometimes that there were centuries between him and Deuce, but he saw them now. “He did not. You didn’t help.”

“I’m sorry,” Erskine said, and he was somewhat genuine about it. He never wanted to fail Deuce, and yet it looked like he was doing that more and more. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Deuce waved his hand tiredly. “The man was an idiot. Who calls themself _Hairbrush_ , after all?”

Erskine laughed, but the slightly bitter way the older man pressed his lips together made guilt churn in his stomach. “What are you going to do now?” 

“Go over our lists, see if there’s anyone else we can approach.”

Erskine wanted to put a hand on Corrival’s shoulder, but didn’t. “I don’t know who any of those people are.”

“You’ve not actually looked at the lists.” Corrival’s voice was dry as he gestured to the piles of paper littering the desk.

“I don’t need to. Or want to, right now,” Erskine said. “You know what. I’m going to see Hopeless, and then we will get absolutely tanked. Want to come?”

“Hopeless doesn’t drink.”

“They do when I’m around.”

“ _Because_ you’re around.”

The joke unexpectedly hit something of a nerve. Erskine thought about Hopeless’ powers, and how Erskine’s fears weighed on the mage. 

“Ha. Ha. Well, are you coming?”

“Another time perhaps. After the Truce is signed. I still have things to do here.”

“Alright,” Erskine said. He left the man at his desk, walking out of the house and onto the street. 

It was raining. That wasn’t a surprise by any means, considering that Erskine was in Ireland, but it was still annoying. What made it worse was that he had to pull his collar up and move quickly, instead of using his magic to keep dry.

Honestly, if he wanted to be able to use magic freely for anything, it was that; avoiding the rain was a good enough reason to very possibly turn the world on its head. 

No. No, he should be serious about this - at least for now. Think things through on the walk over to Hopeless’, because it was probably the last time for a while that he was going to be able to make decisions soberly.

The bustle of the streets around him probably should have made Erskine nervous. He was barely avoiding slamming into people on either side of him. Generally, when he slammed into someone they tended to take offence, but these were mortals. They hadn’t had their nerves frayed by the centuries-long war they’d been made to fight in.

This was something mages needed, Erskine thought. The majority of their world was made up of boring, ordinary people; it kept things orderly. While he knew all too well the monstrosities that mortals were capable of, he also knew that cruelty wasn't as common a trait amongst mortals as many seemed to fear.

He was safe here. Safer than he’d been for quite a while, among people who’d run screaming if they knew what he was actually capable of. If the street had been empty, Erskine probably would have laughed.

Laughing seemed inappropriate right now, so he kept his head down, pulled his coat tighter around him and walked the rest of the way to Hopeless’ in silence, giving himself the opportunity to look forward to the alcohol he’d down and the thoughts that’d stop plaguing him for a while.

The door to their home was down a small alley, one quieter, and Erskine allowed himself the luxury of drying off his coat with magic, safe from mortal, prying eyes, and stepping inside without knocking. Unlocked - that was unusual, but Erskine paid little attention to it, shutting the door quietly behind him and wiping off his feet before going in. Apparently, Hopeless expected him.

Indeed, when he entered the small drawing-room, Hopeless was sitting on the couch, watching the fire. Erskine flopped down next to them with a grin he wasn’t sure that he should feel.

“I’m glad your celebrations didn’t get _too_ out of hand, then.”

“What celebrations?” Hopeless asked.

Erskine gestured at the opened whisky bottle at Hopeless’ feet, the two glasses - one still clean - and the state of Hopeless themself. Their hair was messy, from them running their hands through it perhaps. Their eyes were lowered, fingers coiled together. 

“What’s wrong?”

Hopeless sighed. “I ... you’re going to think I’m a fool.”

“Perhaps,” Erskine said easily. “Does that matter?”

Hopeless shrugged and grimaced.

“Tell me.”

“Well,” Hopeless swallowed. “I know it’s not sensible, but for some reason I thought that, after the war, things would miraculously become easier. I wouldn’t have to battle through people’s terrors every day. I wouldn’t have to talk my friends out of _killing_ someone.”

“What’s Skulduggery done now?”

“It was Dexter, actually.”

Erskine frowned. “What?”

“He wanted to ambush Serpine before the Truce was officially signed. He was in his cups at the time.”

Erskine’s response to this surprise was not clear. On one hand, it would be stupid to jeopardise the Truce. And yet, the idea of Nefarian walking free, after what he did to Skulduggery and Dexter and Larrikin and even Erskine himself? That did not sit right.

“How did you respond?”

“I …” Hopeless drew in a shattering breath. “I made him scared.”

“... What do you mean?”

“I used my powers and I made him _afraid_ ,” Hopeless said loudly. Their eyes remained on the half-empty glass in front of them. “So he wouldn’t go off and do something stupid while drunk and ruin everything. I didn’t want to restrain him physically - I don’t even know if I _could_.”

“Oh,” Erskine considered this. 

Erskine was confident in the idea that Hopeless was a good person. However, they had just used their power over someone else in order to get them to obey their wishes. Hopeless had promised never to use their powers against any of the Dead Men. If a mage like Hopeless could do something like that, albeit with good reason, what would mages with fewer morals do? Would joining the two groups cause more anguish on both sides?

Erskine dismissed this; Hopeless was upset, he shouldn’t let his own thoughts distract him from that. Anyway, hypotheticals annoyed him.

“How did Dexter respond?”

“I don’t know,” Hopeless said. “I left him with Larrikin.”

“How did Larrikin respond, then?”

“He didn’t seem frightened. Perhaps angry.”

This wasn’t a surprise. Larrikin was rarely frightened, and only about the people in his life getting hurt, not injury to his own self. Erskine’s friend thought himself indestructible, and as a healer he was - to a certain extent. Erskine didn’t need to be a fear-mage to know all this. Centuries had taught him how to read his friends’ emotions well. Larrikin’s anger, however, rarely revealed itself; but Erskine supposed he too would be angry also, if he was as close to Dexter as Larrikin was.

“Well,” Erskine said. “You did what you had to.”

That was enough for Hopeless to lean into Erskine’s side. Erskine held his sobbing friend and fought back the rising dread and bitterness, for fear of Hopeless hearing them somehow with their powers. Perhaps today wasn’t the time to share his doubts.

There was a long moment of silence, filled only by Hopeless’ quiet crying, before they murmured, “You’re afraid of me.”

Erskine’s heart flipped, but he only held his friend more closely, shaking his head. “No. No, Hopeless, I’m not.”

Their hands twisted in his shirt in lieu of an answer, but that was all that Erskine needed to be sure they _knew_ he was lying. He was only _sort of_ lying, but Hopeless didn’t know that.

He took a breath, let it out slowly into Hopeless’ hair. “I’m not afraid of you,” he repeated quietly. “But you promised, Hopeless. I can’t blame you for what you did, but … at the same time, can you blame me for reacting this way?”

It wasn’t so much of a reaction as a lack of one - a dull unease that came with the knowledge that Hopeless had really and truly overstepped. Erskine could be their next target. His thoughts seemed to trigger something; the grip on him tightened.

“I’m sorry,” Hopeless said hoarsely, and Erskine swallowed.

“Don’t be. Let’s just … forget about this. Deal with it when we’ve both had some time to think.” _And a hell of a lot of alcohol,_ he added silently.

They could talk seriously another time. For the first in centuries, Erskine could honestly say that, and he didn’t know if he liked that or not. The future was vague and daunting, but it was almost guaranteed. He was happy he could see his closest friends live after the war, but had no idea what he would do, or who he was, in peacetime. 


End file.
